


Over Easy

by Lissadiane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkwardly crashing the birth of a baby, Bucky's kinda a disaster in this one, But then so is Clint, Charity Hawktion (Marvel) 2020, Explicit Sex, Hook up gone awry, M/M, One night stand... sorta, are men holding babies attractive?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Kate hisses from the door of the hospital room, “Clint Barton, I told you, don’t make this weird.”“You already used my sperm for your miracle baby,” Clint says, absent and casual like it’s no big deal. Bucky blinks at Kate over Clint’s shoulder as Kate rolls her eyes. “I think it’s already weird.”“And it’ll be weirder if you hook up with a stranger in the hallway. At least go home with him. Jesus, Clint.”Clint lifts his head and blinks down at Bucky and then grins. “Take me home with you?” he asks, like there’s a chance in hell Bucky’s gonna say no.In which Bucky picks up a pretty blond at the bar and gets much more than he bargained for.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 60
Kudos: 426
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	Over Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> This fic is for the marvelous [cloud--atlas](https://cloud--atlas.tumblr.com/) who generously bid on me in the 2020 Hawktion and asked for a story based on a tumblr post about a guy bringing his one night stand to the birth of a baby. I hope this is what you were looking for. I did my best. And I hope you don't mind a bit of porn because I threw that in too. 
> 
> Special thanks to everyone I know, who listened to me moan about this, and to Dr.Girlfriend for betaing it and patiently pointing out that I kept forgetting what kind of pants Clint was wearing. I knew Clint's pants were gonna be a problem, but I was focused on on if they were on or off or halfway there and not what kind of pants they were at all.

Bucky’s played pool at the table tucked back in the corner of this particular biker bar enough times that he knows how to work the curve in the table to his advantage. He knows how to clear the table in a single shot. He knows how to work tricks into his game to show off to anyone who happens to be watching (particularly if they’re hot and he doesn’t feel like going home alone that night.)

He has destroyed Steve at pool at this particular table dozens upon dozens of times.

So when he slips up and scratches, sending the cue ball into the corner pocket instead of the eight ball and effectively losing his third game in a row, Steve is, understandably, concerned.

“You alright?” he asks Bucky, while setting up another game. Bucky’s doing his best to scowl but it’s hard -- he’s a little distracted.

Which is why he keeps fucking up.

“Fine,” Bucky tells him. “Need another beer. You want one?” He finishes chalking his cue and Steve waves him off because his beer is still pretty much full, so Bucky wanders towards the bar on his own.

If he takes his time, well. Who the fuck could blame him.

The pool table in the very back corner is Bucky’s favourite for a few reasons. It’s less warped than the others in this place. It’s quieter. It’s farther from the stage and the dancefloor which really helped out when Bucky was new to the neighbourhood and still all fucked up from PTSD and getting used to his prosthetic arm and prone to wartime flashbacks at loud sounds, like the shitty cover bands this place always seems to book on weekends, or karaoke nights with over-enthusiastic and under-skilled Adele wannabes.

The table at the back also has the best view of the entire bar, which helps whenever he struggles with hypervigilance. He’s gotten a lot better with that, and the flashbacks, after a few years of therapy, but Bucky still gravitates towards that table.

And tonight, the view is definitely worth it.

“Another?” the bartender asks, and Bucky just nods. Distracted. Again. Still. A moment later, a cold beer slides across the bar, and Bucky takes a quick swig without looking away from the dance floor.

There’s a lot to look at tonight. It’s not _busy_ as such -- it’s a Tuesday evening and there are only a handful of patrons in the bar tonight, most of them clustered in pairs at tables along the far wall. The dancefloor is all but empty.

But fuck. Not entirely empty.

There has been a couple on the dancefloor for the past hour, monopolizing the jukebox and playing obnoxious music and dancing like they belonged somewhere much fancier -- much cleaner -- than this dirty dance floor in the middle of Brooklyn.

The woman is tall and dressed in a literal evening gown, dark and glittering and spilling over her curves, dipping so low off her shoulders it shows off her sleekly muscled back. Her hair is a mess of coppery red curls gathered over one shoulder, framing her pale, pointed face. She’s movie-star gorgeous.

And yet, she’s not the one Bucky can’t seem to look away from. Sure, he could imagine how it would feel to tumble with her into a dark corner, run his hands up her bare back, tangle his fingers in her hair -- that would be nice. 

But he’s kinda fixated on wondering what it would be like for the guy she’s with to shove him up against the wall, pin him there, and get _his_ fingers all up in Bucky’s hair, because fuck. Bucky’s never seen a man taller and broader and blonder than Steve, and Steve’s growth spurt at 14 was responsible for Bucky’s sexual awakening.

It wasn’t a _thing_. They were never a thing.

And now Bucky is 31 and grown up and confident and at peace with his sexuality and fully comfortable seeing something he wants and going after it and for the past hour, what he’s wanted is to climb that particular man like a tree (and he’d have to, because he’s so fucking tall) and bite at the freckles he can see on the guy’s jaw. And then at his neck. Maybe he’d like to lick at the sweat he knows is pooling in the hollow of his throat because the guy is wearing a goddamn tux but the tie is long gone and the top three buttons are undone and are they doing a goddamn tango?

Who the fuck are they?

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the bartender says suddenly, and Bucky turns to look at him, blinking and feeling flushed and overheated and wondering when the fuck he turned back into awkward-fourteen-year-old-Bucky-with-a-crush and what happened to the smooth, confident, charming grown up Bucky who’s seduced someone pretty with a look and a smile from across the room on more than one occasion?

“Excuse me?” he says and the bartender nods towards the redhead and her blond dance partner.

“Them. I know the type. Come in here, dressed like that, ordering top shelf booze, dancing like that. Clearly they ain’t from around here and are only out seeing how the other half lives -- slumming it. You don’t want to go messing around with that type.”

Bucky looks back over his shoulder at the pair of them, dancing with more grace and agility and laughter than Bucky’s used to seeing around here, and thinks about how he isn’t actually trash, but if that guy’s come here looking for an adventure in the slums, Bucky’s willing to play the part.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, taking another swallow of beer as the guy dips the woman, holding her with one hand spread on the small of her back, the other holding her hand up on his broad shoulder. He’s laughing, flushed and a little sweaty, as she rolls her eyes and says something that just makes him laugh harder, swinging her back up onto her feet and into a spin and then, just as Bucky’s about to turn away, he glances up and over her shoulder and somehow locks eyes with Bucky.

It’s only a second or two, but Bucky fumbles -- he doesn’t flash a smile, he doesn’t bite his lip and look charming and interesting and sexy.

He blinks and he swallows hard and he looks away and then he grabs his beer and retreats to the pool table where Steve is waiting, cursing himself with every step.

“Bucky,” Steve says, long-suffering and exasperated and concerned. “That guy? Really? You know--”

“Shut up and break,” Bucky grumbles and Steve does with another big sigh.

And when it’s Bucky’s turn, he sets up on the far side of the table, and maybe he’s planning to show off a little. Maybe he’s hoping the guy’ll be watching. Maybe he plans a trick shot for attention, even if it means he’s probably not gonna win this round.

And after he sets it up, with his cue in position, his breathing steady, he glances up, all casual and confident, biting his bottom lip, just in case --

But when his eyes meet the guy’s bright blue ones from across the bar and he gets that confirmation that he’s looking -- he’s definitely watching -- Bucky’s grip slips and the cue ball jumps clear off the table, doesn’t bounce back and ricochet into the four ball the way he’d planned. Instead, it hits the table and bounces once, twice, three times, before rolling to a stop, and Bucky just stares at the guy who’s staring back.

Finally, the guy flashes a smile, quick and small with a hint of dimples and a whole lot of amusement, before the redhead slides her arm into his and tugs him close and says something that makes him turn away, laughing.

“Bucky,” Steve says, fetching the ball.

“Not a word,” Bucky says, finishing his beer and wondering how many times he’s gonna have to fuck this guy to get whatever the fuck this is out of his system so he can go back to being his regular confident and well-adjusted self.

*

“I just wish you’d settle down,” Steve’s saying, twenty minutes later as he sets up his shot. “Find someone who makes you happy.”

The funny thing is, Bucky feels like he has settled, a bit -- maybe not _down_ , but he’s settled into whatever this flirtation is with the gorgeous blond across the bar, who doesn’t seem put off by the fact that Bucky is apparently incapable of functioning whenever they make eye contact. It just makes him _grin_ and Bucky wants to bite the smile off his lips, but he’s holding it together, he thinks.

“I’m not the long-term type, what do you want from me?” Bucky tells Steve, because it’s true. Bucky’s perfectly happy with his own apartment and his own things and his own cat and his job and his motorcycle and his gym membership and his therapy sessions and whenever he wants more than that, he finds someone pretty and goes home with them and is always gone by breakfast. It suits him just fine.

“I just wish you’d find someone nice,” Steve says.

“Don’t need someone nice,” Bucky says with a grin, taking his turn and clearing the table with a flourish he hopes the guy sees. “Just need someone nice to look at.”

It’s a douchey thing to say and he mostly just says it for Steve’s reaction -- an eyeroll and an offended huff as he sets his cue aside and crosses his arms across his chest and glares.

“You don’t need to get married, Buck,” Steve tells him. “But maybe start sticking around for breakfast. Baby steps.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and says, “If I find someone worth taking out to brunch, Rogers, you’ll be the first to know.”

The thing about happily married people is that they just can’t understand that there can be happily unmarried people, and Steve and Peggy have been worrying over Bucky’s happy bachelorhood for years. It’s nice that they care but can be a little suffocating, and Bucky can’t wait for the day when they give up and accept him for who he is -- a veteran who’s a little bit fucked up but doing better every day, who’s perfectly happy with his cat and his routine, who’s going to be the best uncle there ever was to their children whenever they get around to having any.

And that’s enough. Bucky is perfectly content.

He glances through his lashes at the guy across the bar and amends his thought. He’s gonna be content. As soon as that guy’s got his hands tangled in his hair and is pulling it while he fucks Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky clears his throat, licks his lips, tries not to flush because Steve’ll mock him for the rest of his life. The redhead is talking now, her hands on the guy’s cheeks, forcing him to look at her. She looks stern -- Bucky wonders, not for the first time, what their relationship is but the guy’s kept his hands in strictly PG areas while they were dancing so he’s not too worried. 

Once the blond nods at her, she rolls her eyes and stands up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss that leaves a vivid lipstick stain right on his jaw. Then, while the guy crushes her into a bear hug, she looks over her shoulder and makes eye contact with Bucky for the first time and there’s something cold and threatening in her gaze.

And then she steps back, says something else, glares at Bucky once more, and slips out the door, into an Uber waiting by the curb.

And the guy rubs the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish as he watches to make sure she gets into the car okay, and then turns and looks at Bucky, biting his bottom lip and hesitating.

Steve sighs, loudly. “Well,” he says. “I guess that’s my cue. I’m gonna go. Text me to let me know you’re safe. And where you are. And when you get home. Do you have a condom? Let me --”

He’s grabbing his wallet and Bucky grabs his wrist, stopping him, and saying, “I love you too. Go home. I’ll text you.”

Steve hesitates, shoots the blond a quick look, and then says, “There’s a pancake place by the laundromat. I’ve heard good things.”

“Go _home_ , Steve.”

Steve sighs and grabs his coat, swinging by the bar to pay his tab before waving as he ducks out the door.

Bucky doesn’t waste any time -- he looks directly at the guy, flashes his most charming grin, and jerks his head in invitation as he chalks his cue. The guy rolls his eyes and laughs but comes over, and in the brighter light hanging over the pool table, he’s even prettier than he was under the disco ball on the dance floor.

“Hey,” Bucky says, because pickup lines are too much work.

The guy grins. “Hey. I’m Clint.”

“Bucky. You play?”

“Little bit,” Clint says with a bit of a self-deprecating smirk -- he’s got dimples, of course he does -- and holding his hands up, fingers just half an inch apart to show how little pool playing experience he has.

Which is fine. Which is excellent, really. Bucky is totally on board with teaching this guy how to sink a ball or two. 

Bucky hands him a cue and racks the balls, saying, “Never seen you here before.”

“Never been,” Clint replies, leaning a hip against the table and watching Bucky set the table up. “The bartender at the place three doors down from my apartment would kill me if he knew I’d betrayed him by coming here.”

“Customer loyalty is important,” Bucky agrees, solemn, as he puts the cue ball in place. “But so is checking out your options.”

Clint does check out his options -- very obviously running his eyes over Bucky, lazy and confident, that hint of a grin still there, though he’s trying to hide it. “Liking what I see so far,” he says and Bucky laughs.

“I’ll break,” he says, lining up the first shot. “Then show you a few tricks.”

“Oh, I noticed a few from the dance floor,” Clint says, voice warm with barely-restrained laughter now. “You’re pretty good.”

Bucky is pretty good, but he shrugs like it’s no big deal and takes the first shot. Balls scatter, he sinks the four, and he steps aside, motioning for Clint to take his turn.

“You know how to hold the cue?” Bucky asks him, more than willing to step up and show him.

Clint glances at him over his shoulder, already leaning over the table with the cue in position, and grins. “I think I got it,” he says. And then he takes the shot. Without even looking. And sinks every striped ball on the table.

It’s a beautiful shot. Clint even uses the warped spot on the table to give the cue ball a bit of a spin to bank off the side and sink the last ball. It’s a miracle shot, really, even on a perfect table, after ages of studying the lay of the table and lining up the shot and fucking watching what the fuck you’re doing.

It’s hot as hell, not even taking into account the way Clint smiled over his shoulder or the way his ass looked in his tight pants when he leaned over like that.

Bucky stares at the table in shock, watching the cue ball as it spins, swallowing hard. When the ball finally stills, he looks up at Clint, his throat feeling a bit dry.

“You, uh, wanna get out of here?” he asks and Clint grins, slow.

He sets his cue aside. “Took you long enough to ask.”

*

They make it to the alley out back.

There is a short list of people who would be appalled to find Bucky on his knees for a pretty blond in a dirty alley in Brooklyn (and Steve is at the top of that list), but luckily for him, they’re the last people he wants to think about while sucking such a pretty dick.

Even as dirty snowy slush soaks through the knees of Bucky’s best and tightest jeans where he’s kneeling on what feels like a dozen sharp stones, even as he breathes in through his nose and, under the scent of the Clint’s dick (which is, unsurprisingly, really fuckin’ pretty), Bucky can smell -- what is that? Old garbage? Rotting banana peels? Old beer?

An alley is not the most appetizing place for a blowjob, but Bucky tries to focus, tips his head a little, changes up his technique, slides his tongue just right along the bottom of -- 

Clint’s head falls back and hits the dirty brick wall with a muffled thump and he groans and his hands tug at Bucky’s hair and the garbage, the snow, the stones -- none of it matters.

Bucky closes his eyes and loses himself in the feel of it, the taste of it, the way his throat aches in the best way when he takes it deeper and deeper, anticipation making his own dick grow hard enough to struggle with the frankly obscene jeans he wiggled into earlier in the evening. 

And then nearby, something shrieks and he jerks his head up, startled, and maybe he bites a little -- fuck, it sounds like something is being murdered, he can’t be held responsible for that -- and he turns his head, Clint’s cock wet and swollen and, yeah, pretty, and right there, and someone better be fucking getting murdered or Bucky’s gonna _kill_ them.

“In heat,” Clint says, and his voice is wrecked and broken enough to soothe Bucky’s ego, which had taken a dent when his teeth had gotten a little too into the action. Clint swallows, stares down at Bucky with eyes that are darker now than they were before, almost all pupil. “Cats, I mean. Those are cats. Fucking.”

It sounds like someone is literally getting killed and Bucky stares off down the alley for a moment and then tries to get back to business, to ignore the shrieks and howls.

But it’s too much. The screams, the garbage, the snow, the mud, all of it. He growls a little, rests his forehead against Clint’s hip and says, “You wanna get out of here?”

“God, yes,” Clint says, and he’s already shoving himself back in his pants, zipping up, scrambling with impatience. “Your place? My place? Whatever place is closer?”

*

Bucky’s place, it turns out, is closer, so they walk there, hands shoved in their pockets, shoulders hunched up against the cold, as they make awkward small talk.

He’s from Iowa, Clint tells him. A farm, though he hasn’t been back in years. He’s got a brother. Bucky mentions his sister. His mom. Clint tells him about his dog. His name is Lucky.

Bucky nods along and talks about his cat and there’s an awkward pause after every sentence that wouldn’t be there if they could just pause and make out a bit before continuing on their way. It’s only four blocks but it feels like more and Bucky’s getting cold.

Making out is great for filling awkward silences and for keeping warm, but he restrains himself and keeps walking.

It’s snowing a little and the streets are quiet the way New York rarely is. Street lights are turning the freshly-fallen snow into diamonds on the muddy sidewalks and reflecting in the puddles icing over in the tire tracks running through the slush on the streets.

It would be romantic, Bucky thinks, if it wasn’t a one night stand. They could slip into a cafe and order some hot chocolate and curl up together in a corner booth and sip it until they could feel their noses again.

He glances at Clint and he’s just as pretty as he was back at the bar. He’s wrapped up in a parka that’s a bit too big even for his height and massive shoulders. The hood is fluffy and the way it’s laying down his back makes his hair puff up in ridiculous ways. His cheeks and nose are pink from the snow and every time he makes a self-deprecating remark, he smirks a bit and flashes his dimples and there are freckles across his nose, scattered down his neck, and Bucky wants to lick them.

It’s not romantic. Bucky’s got no time for romance.

What he does have time for, however, is a hot, dirty night of nearly anonymous (but safe, because he’s not an idiot) sex with Clint. He’s got plans. It’s only a four block walk but fuck. Four blocks filled with inane small talk is plenty of time to think of over a dozen filthy things he wants to do when they finally get inside.

Bucky gets his apartment door open before he shoves his hands down Clint’s pants, so he thinks there’s a lot of positive things to be said about his self control, anyway. 

Sure, they make out like desperate, horny teenagers inside the apartment, against the door, groping and grinding and making ridiculous, muffled sounds against each other’s mouths, teeth, throats and anywhere else they can reach. Bucky’s jeans are half undone and shoved down along one hip, so Clint can palm his ass as Bucky grinds against his thigh and his teeth are tugging at the side of Bucky’s neck as Bucky works his hand back down the front of his pants, around his cock, and they’ve each managed to kick off one of their shoes but Bucky had kicked a little too hard and his shoe had knocked over a lamp. Clint’s shirt is half undone because it’s fancy and the buttons are small enough to be a challenge for Bucky’s metal hand. He’s shoved it off Clint’s shoulders and it’s tangled around his waist Bucky can’t get it loose to tug over his head because Clint won’t stop biting at Bucky’s neck and Bucky doesn’t really want him to.

It’s a mess, that’s what it is. But Bucky doesn’t care. It’s the best kind of mess. And if he trips over the sock he’s managed to get halfway off his foot and tumbles to the floor, it’ll be fine, as long as he manages to drag Clint down with him. And get his cock back in his mouth. 

They don’t trip and they don’t fall and it’s probably because Clint’s got the common sense to finally stop marking up his neck to ask hopefully, “Bed?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, because beds are better than fucking in front of the door.

They nearly make it. They are literally steps away. Bucky is finally getting his pants down over his hips, working on kicking his last shoe off, trying to keep his balance while Clint laughs and it’s muffled in the shirt he’s got tangled around his head.

And then Clint’s phone starts to ring. It’s in the back pocket of his pants, loose around his hips, and Clint gasps audibly inside the shirt caught around his head and starts thrashing desperately, succeeding only in tangling himself up even more.

“Let it go to voicemail,” Bucky tells him, because who the fuck even phones anymore? “We can--”

“I need to check, it might be important, sorry, sorry, I just need --” Clint babbles and Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs him by the hips to hold him still, wrestling the phone from his pocket just as Clint finally yanks the shirt up over his head.

His hair is a mess and his face is flushed and Bucky glances at the phone. “It’s Kate?” he says, hoping Kate is someone who can be relegated to voicemail.

But Clint snatches the phone up and answers, turning away.

He’s got a really nice back, though, so Bucky doesn’t mind, absently tracing the freckles with his gaze as he finally gets his shoe off and can kick off his pants.

“When?” Clint says, and then his voice goes higher pitched. “Twenty _minutes_ ago? I can’t get there twenty minutes ago -- I was with Nat! We were dancing! No, I’m not with Nat now, I’m -- I don’t know. Fuck, fuck, hold on.”

Clint turns back to Bucky, and judging by the way he’s clearly freaking out, Bucky is beginning to realize that perhaps, perhaps, this night isn’t going to end with the copious amounts of orgasms he was hoping for.

“Where are we, exactly?” Clint asks. He’s pale, eyes wide and a little glassy -- Bucky’s seen enough people in shock overseas, he recognizes the signs. So much for casual sex. But Bucky’s not actually an asshole, so he tugs his pants back up and does them up while rattling off his address.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Do you need to go somewhere? I can call an Uber.”

Clint’s already back on the phone. “I will,” he says, after reporting the address. “I don’t know. I’ll take an Uber. I’ll look it up. It can’t be far -- okay. Okay. Just… hold on. I will be _right_ there.”

He hangs up the phone, shoving it back in his pocket as he turns back to Bucky. Clint buries both hands in his mess of hair and holds tightly and says, “I need to get to Woodhull Hospital. Now. Or like.” He laughs, a little hysterical. “Or like twenty minutes ago. Fuck. I need an Uber or… or...”

The hospital. Nothing good ever comes from a middle-of-the-night call that results in needing to get to the hospital twenty minutes ago.

“It’s close,” Bucky says, all business as he grabs his shirt, tugging it back on. “We can walk it. Get dressed.”

“You’re gonna go with me?” Clint asks, still sounding dazed and shocky.

Bucky might not be Army anymore but he’s never really going to be able to let someone clearly in distress walk out of his apartment in the middle of the night. “Doubt you can follow directions right now,” Bucky tells him as he shoves Clint’s shirt at him. “And walking’ll be faster than an Uber.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, distracted as he tugs the shirt he’d just worked so hard to get off back over his head.

Bucky finds his shoe by the broken lamp, shoves it back on his foot, and grabs his coat, and five minutes after they tumbled through his door, they’re back on the street, walking quickly towards the hospital.

*

Bucky should just leave Clint at the door to the hospital and make his way home, probably to jerk off before falling asleep.

But Clint still looks dazed and confused and Bucky is cold from the walk but not actually a coldhearted individual, and he’s pretty sure Steve would never forgive him for abandoning someone so clearly in distress at a hospital without first delivering him to his loved ones.

Someone is probably dying.

So Bucky steps into the hospital with Clint, who is looking progressively more frazzled and panicky by the second. 

When he looks around wildly and says, “I don’t know where I’m going, what the fuck,” Bucky takes over and tugs him towards the administration desk.

“Hey,” he says to the man behind the desk. “We’re looking for…” He trails off, looking at Clint.

“Kate Bishop,” Clint says, frantic. “Kate and America.”

The man behind the desk smiles and says, “Oh, fantastic. Second floor, room 2102, you can’t miss it. Good luck!”

It’s a strange thing to say to someone here because their loved one suffered some traumatic injury, but Bucky has no time to worry about it. He’s already got his arm around Clint’s shoulders, offering physical as well as moral support, as they wait for the elevator.

It’s definitely not the way he expected his night to go. But Bucky’s gonna deliver Clint to the right room and then wish him well and go on his merry way and jerk off a whole lot. Maybe order pizza. It’s not the worst way to spend an evening.

The elevators open on a busy floor with pastel murals of bunnies and ducks on the walls and Bucky’s eyes go wide. If it’s a kid -- if a kid got hurt --

He doesn’t have enough time to panic, though, because a slight, dark haired girl in sweats and a too-big purple t-shirt with a bullseye on the front spins around when the elevator opens. Her hair is falling in her eyes, which are wide and frantic and she appears to be hyperventilating a little bit.

She looks at Clint and then at Bucky and her eyes narrow dangerously when she looks back at Clint. “We only agreed to this if you didn’t make it weird,” she says accusingly, jabbing a finger at him. “This is making it weird, Barton.”

Clint lifts up both hands. “I’m not making it weird!”

“Then why’d you show up with a dude who looks suspiciously like the one Natasha says she left you flirting with a couple hours ago?”

Clint looks at Bucky and blinks like he’d forgotten Bucky was there, and Bucky is rather wishing he wasn’t. He feels ridiculously out of place.

“He didn’t know how to get to the hospital,” Bucky says finally, awkward. “So I walked him.”

Her eyes are still narrowed and she cocks her head, considering him for a moment. Her gaze sweeps over him, taking in every detail, from his hair that needs a trim to his stubble, his shoulders, his metal arm, his too-tight pants that are still wet at the knees from the slush in that alley, the hickey Clint left on his neck.

“Who are you?” she asks finally, crossing her arms over her chest. The t-shirt slips down off one shoulder.

“This is, uh.” Clint starts to say, stammering and then flushing a dull red when he clearly cannot recall Bucky’s name.

“Bucky,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck. Shit. He shouldn’t be here.

“Bucky,” she echoes, pursing her lips. “Why didn’t you call an Uber?”

“Was only a few blocks,” he says, shrugging. “Faster to walk. I can go if--”

“No,” she says, and now she looks calculating as she studies him. “You should stay.”

He doesn’t _want_ to stay. He wants to go home. Jerk off. Eat pizza. Regret that the evening didn’t end in multiple orgasms with Clint who hadn’t bothered to remember his name.

Bucky feels a little used. He made a special effort this time to remember Clint’s name. He doesn’t usually put in that much work.

She turns and leads the way down the hall and Clint falls into step behind her, glancing beseechingly at Bucky until he trails along behind, feeling out of place and rather lost.

“That’s Kate,” Clint whispers. “She’s one of the moms.”

One of the moms?

They arrive at the correct room and the door is open -- and the room is full of people. And no one is crying. No one is mourning. No one is panicking. 

There are balloon bouquets and vases of flowers and gift bags filled with pastel blankets and stuffed animals and Bucky feels more awkward and out of place than ever -- especially when someone steps aside and he sees the woman on the bed, hair a mess, face rather strained, huge smile on her face, and a tiny, brand new baby in her arms.

“And that’s America,” Clint says, sounding strangled, looking pale. “And that -- and that is --”

Kate beams at America and kisses her lips and whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. Then she gently takes the sleeping baby, turns to Clint and says, “And this is Abigail Edith Bishop Chavez.”

She holds the baby out to Clint who is just staring at the little girl with wide, starry eyes. “Edith?” he echoes, soft like he’s afraid to wake the baby.

“Like your mama,” America says, quiet and warm and not dimming her smile at all.

“Like my mom,” Clint agrees, soft, and then he’s holding the baby.

And Bucky… Bucky has no fucking clue what’s going on here. What Clint’s relationship is with Kate or America or the baby. Whose baby she is. 

And Bucky doesn’t have anything against kids in general, or people who have them, or people who are interacting with them. His sister has two kids and he loves being the fun uncle who sweeps in, gets them high on sugar, and drifts away again before having to deal with the fallout.

He’s never been particularly attached or attracted to the idea of parenthood. He knows some people go weak in the knees when they see a particularly attractive person cradling an infant or a puppy or a kitten or an ice cream cone or whatever the fuck else. And Bucky has never been that person, exactly.

But fuck if watching the way Clint’s big hands gently cradle that tiny baby isn’t doing something drastic to Bucky’s knees. And maybe his lungs. His breathing is a bit strange, his throat a bit tight, his chest rattled with butterflies or something.

It’s just. Clint is huge. Bucky spent the whole evening wanting Clint to push him around, pull his hair, hold him still. He’d been admiring Clint’s shoulders, his biceps, the abs he could only imagine were hidden under his shirt. And all of his imaginings had Clint being rough and strong and manhandling Bucky just how he likes it.

And now seeing this contrast -- Clint cradling an infant swaddled in soft yellow linen, with a scrunched up, angry red face, sucking her fist and scowling in her sleep… Like he’s all at once afraid she’ll break but also entirely confident that there’s nothing in the world that’s gonna make him drop her…

Bucky’s cheeks flush and he clears his throat and wonders what it would be like to kiss that adoring smile right off Clint’s lips.

He really should go. His thoughts are far too dirty and out of context. It’s a goddamn maternity ward. Bucky should not be absent-mindedly pondering where the nearest utility closet is, as if he’s gonna get a chance to haul Clint there with him.

The woman from the bar is there suddenly. She’s changed out of her evening gown and into something much more comfortable and she slips up beside Clint, peering down at Abigail, and says, “Congratulations, Uncle Clint.”

Clint beams at her and his smile lights up the whole room.

Bucky takes a slow, careful step towards the door and then Kate’s there, slipping her arm into his and smiling with too many teeth. “Leaving already?” she asks, sugary sweet. “You just arrived.”

“Don’t want to intrude,” Bucky says. “I just wanted to make sure he got here safe and --”

“Super nice of you,” she says, patting his arm. “None of his other hookups would have bothered. What do you do for work, Bucky? And where do you live? Ever been married?”

It’s clearly an interrogation and Bucky is wildly, wildly out of his depth, but he does his best to answer, and she hums skeptically all the while. 

It doesn’t last long, thank fuck, because her wife, apparently, just had a baby and Kate’s got better things to do than interrogate the stranger who got dragged along accidentally, so she glares at him and tells him not to sneak out and that she’ll be right back and then goes back to America, smoothing her hair back and talking to her as they laugh together and watch Clint, who keeps counting Abigail’s fingers and calling them perfect for holding a bow.

Bucky is going to leave.

As soon as he can look away. But Abigail’s got her tiny fingers curled around Clint’s pinky and Clint is beaming down at her and he’s holding her so carefully and ... Fuck.

Bucky wonders if maybe he and Clint can pick up where they left off earlier if Bucky sticks around for a while.

“Is it creepy to be attracted to a guy holding a baby?” he texts to Steve. Steve sends back a series of question marks and Bucky replies with a picture of a “WELCOME BABY GIRL” balloon bouquet and then sends it to voice mail when Steve calls him three seconds later.

He’s got a lot on his mind and this isn’t really the best place for an in-depth conversation about it.

*

Eventually, America gets tired and Kate starts shooing everyone out. It’s 3 am and Abigail is an hour and a half old, someone insisted Bucky hold her at some point and she’s adorable and small and he doesn’t drop her, so it’s a win.

Clint looks startled when he leaves the hospital room and finds Bucky loitering in the hallway, waiting for him.

Bucky’s not an asshole, okay. He might be _hoping_ for the chance to go home with Clint. But he’s not expecting it. He’s tired. Clint’s tired. It’s been a weird night. If Clint just wants to get an Uber home and --

Clint blinks at him, slow, and then his grin grows even brighter, crooked and flashing his dimples.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little rough, pleased. “You’re still here.”

He doesn’t sound upset about it at least, and before Bucky can reply, Clint’s got him backed up against a pastel purple butterfly painted on the hallway wall, caging him in with hands on either side of his head.

He’s so tall and his shoulders are so wide. Bucky might not be tall but he’s never felt _small_ before, but he can’t help it now, with Clint pressed up against him, holding him still, studying his face for a moment.

“You’re really pretty,” Clint says and Bucky can’t help but laugh a little.

Clint chases the laughter with his tongue, kissing Bucky with a few hours’ pent-up aggression and enthusiasm. And suddenly Bucky isn’t tired anymore.

He relaxes into it, slipping both hands up to Clint’s shoulders, holding on though he doesn’t need to with the way Clint’s got him pinned to the wall. He kisses him back, eyes closed, head tipped up, getting thoroughly lost in it. 

It’s not really the _best_ place for it, he remembers abruptly, as Clint pushes a knee between his, hands sliding down to Bucky’s hips, lifting him up a bit. Bucky breaks the kiss and lets his head fall back against the wall as he tries to catch his breath and that’s when Kate hisses from the door of the hospital room, “Clint Barton, I told you, _don’t make this weird_.”

“You already used my sperm for your miracle baby,” Clint says, absent and casual like it’s no big deal. Bucky blinks at Kate over Clint’s shoulder as Kate rolls her eyes. “I think it’s already weird.”

“And it’ll be weirder if you hook up with a stranger in the hallway. At least go home with him. Jesus, Clint.”

Clint lifts his head and blinks down at Bucky and then grins. “Take me home with you?” he asks, like there’s a chance in hell Bucky’s gonna say no.

*

The walk back to Bucky’s place is faster, more frenetic than the walk to the hospital had been. The anxiety and panic are gone, replaced by a giddy sort of exhaustion that makes them walk faster, holding hands, tugging each other through the slushier parts of the sidewalks and across crosswalks.

On the way, Clint tells Bucky all about it -- about Kate, one of his very best friends, and her wife America and how they’d wanted a baby and Clint was the closest to family that Kate had, so they’d asked him if he would help. How Kate had refused to have any direct interaction with his sperm because it was too weird, so America took one for the team --

“Not that we had sex,” Clint says, looking scandalized. “We did it all nice and proper.”

“So she’s yours?” Bucky asks, because he’s still wrapping his head around it.

“She’s theirs,” Clint corrects gently. “And I get to be her favourite uncle.”

“Being an uncle’s pretty nice,” Bucky tells him, and then he’s telling Clint all about Becca and her kids and his entire family, and the entire conversation has a hazy, almost-dawn, dreamlike quality to it and Bucky doesn’t share much, especially not with the people he’s just expecting to spend the night with.

But he held Clint’s newborn niece so it only seems fair.

“Are you hungry?” Bucky asks, as they tumble up the stairs to his apartment.

“Mmm,” Clint hums, low. “I could eat.”

Bucky glances at him over his shoulder at his tone and then nearly trips on a step because Clint is staring at his ass and Bucky doesn’t think Clint is thinking about food at all.

“Yeah,” he says huskily. “Okay.”

He unlocks the door and it’s a repeat of earlier -- a mess of desperate kisses and teeth and tongue and clothes that get tangled up and in the way.

But maybe it’s because they’ve already got practice at this or maybe it’s because hours have passed and it’s nearly dawn and they’ve got no time for fucking around, because Clint yanks his shirt off without getting tangled in it. Bucky slips out of his shoes without damaging any more lamps. They both kick their pants off before they make it across the living room.

And by the time Bucky tugs Clint into his bedroom, they’ve both stripped down to their underwear like well-oiled machines.

“So goddamned efficient,” Clint says, as he pushes Bucky back towards the bed, grinning when Bucky lets himself fall and bounces on it.

“Efficient woulda been doing this hours ago,” Bucky tells him and Clint shuts him up with his mouth.

They kiss and kiss and kiss some more and when Clint lets Bucky up for air, he can’t quite catch his breath because Clint shoves his hand inside Bucky’s boxers at the same time.

Bucky has spent the better part of the night fantasizing about the filthy things he wanted to do to Clint and to have done to him, but he is more than willing to settle for a sloppy handjob now and maybe an encore in the morning.

“Bucky,” Clint says and Bucky hums in response, licking his lips and swallowing back a needy little sound because goddamn it, he’s got more stamina than that, even if Clint’s got his hand wrapped around his cock and it’s such a nice hand and Bucky’s pretty sure he could come in under a minute if he really put his mind to it.

He isn’t gonna, of course.

“Just wanted you to know I remember your name this time,” Clint tells him, biting his lip on an apologetic grin and then twisting his fist in a way that has Bucky arching up and unable to swallow back the sound that catches in his throat and turns into laughter.

“You say the sweetest things,” he says, closing his eyes, licking his lips again.

“Yeah?” Clint hums, nuzzling his ear, nipping at it, and then saying huskily, “Buck?”

Bucky shivers at the word whispered in his ear. “Yeah?”

“I think this might work better if I eat you out while I jerk you off. You know. For efficiency.”

Bucky’s eyes fly open as Clint lifts up a bit to look down at him. His hair is a mess and his cheeks are flushed, mouth a little swollen from Bucky’s teeth tugging on his bottom lip. He’s got red marks on his face from Bucky’s stubble and Bucky wants to see what those marks would look like on the delicate skin of Clint’s inner thighs.

“Efficiency,” Bucky agrees, trying to catch his breath.

Clint flashes a mischievous grin. “Exactly,” he says, and then he’s shoving Bucky’s boxers off and sliding lower, shifting so Bucky’s legs are braced on his shoulders. Honestly, Bucky isn’t all that used to being the one exposed like this. He hasn’t specifically got a type -- he’s pretty open when it comes to who he finds attractive, whether it comes to gender or personality or physical appearance. He can generally find something intriguing in just about anyone, so long as they’re a decent person.

But the thing is, Bucky is strong. He might not be the tallest, but as a general rule, he’s stronger than most of the people he brings home. So he’s usually the one doing the manhandling, the lifting, the holding. People tend to see Bucky and his metal arm and want him to.... Well. Wreck them. A little bit. And he certainly doesn’t mind. He likes to think he’s pretty good at it.

And he would dearly love to be the one taking Clint apart with his hands and his mouth.

But holy fuck, Bucky doesn’t mind at all when Clint grazes his inner thigh with his teeth and then says, “And then I’m gonna fuck you, if you want me to. D’you have lube?”

Bucky reaches over and fumbles in his nightstand for lube and frankly too many condoms, which he drops on the bed from shaky hands. Clint just grins and grabs one, slipping it on quick and easy. Bucky doesn’t even have time to stammer about how much he’d like the whole fucking thing before Clint is dragging his mouth over Bucky’s cock, sucking a little before sliding lower. He’s got the pad of his thumb pressed against Bucky and he hums softly as he runs his tongue down and around his thumb. His other hand is wrapped around Bucky’s cock again, stroking him slow and steady, and it’s a lot, with his mouth working Bucky open with gentle, warm pressure. He licks at him until he can carefully lick inside him, and as Bucky relaxes into it, Clint’s finger slips inside as well, stretching a little and slick with lube.

It’s just the right side of overwhelming and Bucky arches into it, pushing his legs open farther, not even caring about the sounds he’s making anymore.

He feels feverish, like he’s growing too big for his skin, and Clint keeps up his slow, relentless touching, licking him open and steadily winding the knot of tension coiling in Bucky’s stomach tighter and tighter.

He needs to come but Clint won’t give him the tiny bit extra he needs and it doesn’t take long before Bucky is panting and desperate, lips swollen from biting them.

“Clint,” he says breathlessly, finally. He wants to think it’s demanding, stern, but it probably comes out more pleading and desperate. 

Clint lifts his head and his mouth is red, wet, his lips swollen. He licks them, slow and dirty, and says, “Oh hey. You remember my name too.” He grins, smug, eyes bright with laughter. Bucky growls, frustrated, and Clint runs a soothing hand along his thigh. “Ask me nicely,” he says, coaxing.

Bucky’s having trouble focusing. He’s shaking a little, fine tremors in his legs, all of his attention fixated on Clint and what he had been doing with his mouth and his hands and the crushing desperation he can’t help but feel now that Clint’s stopped.

“What?” he pants.

“Ask nicely and I’ll let you come,” Clint tells him, nipping along his hip bone a little and looking up through his lashes.

Bucky lets his head flop back and closes his eyes and says, “Please,” and it sounds more like a growl, less like asking nicely, but it’s the best he’s got, and Clint soothes the spot he bit with a soft kiss.

“Good boy,” he says, and Bucky’s cheeks flush a little at the praise even as he kinda wants to bite him to prove he’s not that good at all. He’s going to have so many new kinks to work through when this is over. “You can pull my hair if you want to,” Clint tells him, sending shivers up and down Bucky’s spine when the words brush against him just before Clint’s tongue is on him again. “I like it.”

Bucky runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, tangling both hands, though he doesn’t pull. He needs something to hold onto, though, and he’s been wanting to get his hands in Clint’s hair all night.

Clint takes Bucky apart with his mouth and his hands, working three fingers deeply inside him and then licking his way up Bucky’s cock and taking it into his mouth. He moves his fingers slowly, deliberately, brushing over his prostate with the same rhythm that his mouth and tongue are keeping on Bucky’s cock and it’s a lot -- almost too much, and now that Clint isn’t holding back or teasing, it doesn’t take long at all for Bucky to come.

It catches him off-guard and he makes an embarrassing sound, but Clint doesn’t seem to mind, humming a little as he keeps up the gentle pressure, drifting lower just before Bucky gets too sensitive.

He’s trying to catch his breath and get his bearings back and it’s hard, especially when Clint starts lazily licking his way inside again.

Bucky’s toes curl because he’s so sensitive and he swallows back a moan but he _likes_ it and doesn’t want Clint to stop, so he pushes into the sensation even as his vision whites out with starbursts of almost-too-much.

“Okay?” Clint asks, kissing his inner thigh.

“So good,” Bucky mumbles.

“Can I fuck you?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and can’t help a small sound catching in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, his voice husky.

Clint kisses him then, a careful slide of teeth and tongue, licking at his mouth until Bucky can’t help but feel all the tension drain out of him. 

“Turn over,” Clint tells him, and Bucky does.

Clint takes him on his hands and knees, pushing inside him slowly, carefully, after slicking himself up with more lube and slipping a condom on. Bucky arches into it, moaning a little, feeling stretched out and full and completely surrounded by Clint, who settles against his back and wraps one arm around his stomach, the other hand holding him up, fingers tangled in the bedsheet beside Bucky’s metal hand.

Clint starts slow, grinding inside him, and Bucky is already so sensitive, he shakes a little pushing back against him, shifting his hips to take him deeper and trying to make him move.

“You’re a fucking tease,” Bucky growls and Clint laughs. Bucky can feel it all around him and inside of him and if he hadn’t already come, he’d probably have come just from that. As it is, he makes a soft, pleading, desperate and probably embarrassing sound and Clint shifts to hold his hand, like he thinks Bucky needs soothing instead of fucking.

It’s strange, seeing Clint’s pale, scuffed up, scarred hand curled around Bucky’s metal fingers, and he stares down at them, breathing heavily, as Clint starts moving faster, harder inside him.

“Your arm,” Clint says, breathless, as he rocks into Bucky hard, brushing against his prostate and nearly shoving him over with the force of it. “Is just about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky laughs, startled, and it sounds strangled, broken. “Yeah?” he pants.

“Yeah,” Clint says, and then he’s tugging Bucky up until his back presses against Clint’s chest as he shoves up inside him again and again. He’s got Bucky’s metal hand in his, pulling it up and back, until Bucky’s fingers are tangled in his hair. “Pull it,” he says, panting. “I told you I like it.”

Bucky lets his head fall back to Clint’s shoulder, giving in and not even trying to hush his desperation as he arches back and twists his fingers and pulls.

“You want me to work you open with it next time?” Bucky asks, pulling again as Clint presses his face to the side of Bucky’s neck and whimpers. 

“Yeah,” Clint says, his movements becoming jerkier, more desperate.

“Make you beg me to fuck you while my fingers are inside you?”

“Bucky,” Clint gasps.

And Bucky shakes his sweaty hair out of his eyes and grins and says, slow and rough, “You remember my name. Good boy.”

Clint laughs as he comes and it’s a startled, punched out sound, like it catches him off guard. Bucky doesn’t mind at all, running his fingers through Clint’s hair soothingly as Clint pants against his neck and tries to catch his breath, still buried inside him. When Clint collapses to the bed, he takes Bucky with him, still tucked against his chest and sticky where his sweat is drying.

They breathe heavily together, still pressed together, though Clint has dealt with the condom and tossed it with impressive accuracy in the wastebasket across the room. Bucky would be suitably impressed if he hadn’t already seen the way Clint handled a pool table.

“Best hookup ever,” Clint tells him, already sounding half asleep.

Bucky should clean himself off. He should shower. He should change the sheets. He should put some pajamas on. He should try his best to get Clint up and dressed and out of the apartment before dawn.

There are rules to hookups, and falling asleep naked and sticky and spooning sure as fuck ain’t one of them.

Bucky falls asleep. Naked and sticky and the little spoon.

*

Dawn is long past when Bucky wakes, and when he does, it’s because Clint is swearing softly and trying to hop his way into his pants.

Bucky is exhausted. He aches in places he hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s the sweet sort of ache he wants to lean into, though, his body humming and satisfied and ready for another round.

But there are rules to hookups and Clint, from the way he’s quietly gathering his things, seems to know them.

Bucky should pretend to be sleeping. Let Clint make his escape with dignity and grace. Then Bucky can shower and have some coffee and try to be a functional human being.

He’s an expert at one night stands and hook ups and he knows how this works.

The thing is though… the thing is, Bucky never got his turn. He never got to hold Clint down with his metal hand and fuck him until he begged. He never got to suck him off until Clint came in his mouth. He never got to trace those freckles with his tongue to see how far down they went.

Maybe Clint would be willing to stick around for another round, Bucky wonders, watching him through his lashes as Clint tries to keep his balance and tug a sock on at the same time. 

But would another round be enough?

The problem is, Bucky doesn’t just want to fuck him senseless.

He wants to meet Clint’s dog. He wants to find out who that gorgeous redhead at the bar was and how she and Clint came to be there in formal wear, ballroom dancing. He wants to learn about what Clint does for a living and how he ended up in New York. He wants to find out what Clint’s favourite pizza is and where he likes to order it from. He wants to know Clint’s thoughts on Pacific Rim and its less-amazing sequel, and the Twilight movies and his favourite classic rom com. He wants to introduce Clint to his nephews and to Steve.

Fuck, Steve. He’s going to be so goddamn smug.

Clint’s easing the bedroom door open when Bucky gives in and opens his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravelly, rough. “You got somewhere to be?”

Clint hesitates, looking at him over his shoulder, head cocked curiously. “Heading out,” he says. “Unless…” He lets it linger, biting his bottom lip, a tiny anxious tell.

Bucky sits up, sheets falling around his hips and pooling there as he stretches, trying to work a kink out of his shoulders. He’s a mess and, judging by the sun spilling in through the window, it’s early afternoon and he’s missed breakfast time by a few hours at least.

“Unless you wanted to stick around for a while,” Bucky says, shoving his hair out of his eyes and refusing to give in to the urge to fidget nervously. 

“Yeah?” Clint asks, cautious and hopeful.

“Maybe we could get breakfast,” Bucky offers, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “There’s a pancake place by the laundromat. I’ve heard good things.”

Clint turns back to him with a slow, sunny smile. “I could eat,” he says.

Bucky smiles back. “But first, c’mere. I didn’t get my turn.” He holds out a hand and Clint rolls his eyes, laughing even as he struggles to pull his shirt back off over his head and tumbles back into the bed.

The end.


End file.
